That Single Step
by Oaktown fangirl
Summary: John turns to Astrid for help. The title comes from the proverb that every journey begins with a single step. Contains spoilers for events through "A Sort of Homecoming."
1. Chapter 1

AN: I had this idea based on spoilers I read, and wanted to post it before events on the show eclipse it. It's a bit raw as a result, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.

* * *

Astrid was alone when the doorbell sounded. She was in the study—a space she loved. When she was alone in the house, it was her favorite spot to read or peruse the Internet on her laptop. Though she believed the immediate danger was behind her, she was still wary about unexpected visitors. Stephen had made good on his promise that she was safe from his uncle. More than that, Roger's return signaled a change ahead for the Tomorrow People. One that she hoped would mean an end to the life of fear and violence they lived. In spite of all this, she still approached the door—her own front door—with the kind of caution she once reserved for dark alleys. It was silly in a way. If it was a tomorrow person with ill intent, they could have teleported in; if it was an Ultra hit squad, they wouldn't have used the bell. Still, she crept up quietly, and cautiously checked to see who was there.

"John!" John was leaning—no, supporting himself against doorjamb. Astrid threw open the door, and John stumbled in. Seeing the state of him, she reached to him out at once. He allowed himself to half collapse into proffered arms. She held onto him in silence for a moment. He was a mess. There was so much she wanted to ask, but now wasn't the time.

With one arm around his waist to support him, she pushed the door shut with the other. She helped him to the study and eased him into her dad's comfy leather chair. Only now did she take a close look at him. What had been apparent at first glance—that he was badly battered—came into stark perspective now. Cuts and bruises marred his face, and his gingerly movements, punctuated by winces, gave evidence of more bodily damage. Wordlessly, she helped him shimmy out of his trademark leather jacket. In the process of doing so, she could see that his wrists were badly bruised and abraded as well.

"We need to get these cuts cleaned up," was all she could think to say. Action would keep her thoughts and worries at bay. As she turned to leave him, he reached out and caught her wrist. "I'll be right back," she reassured him. Then, placing her hand over his and giving it a gentle squeeze, she added, "I won't be a minute—I promise." He said nothing, but released her wrist, and sank back into the chair. He closed his eyes, which she could see were red-rimmed and puffy, as though he'd been crying. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, and turned away as she fought back tears of her own.

She went straight back to the front door to make sure it was locked and secure. Then she pulled the curtains in the study and living room. The lower floor suddenly seemed cave-like—cool, and safe. She hoped—no she _needed_ it to feel safe. Finally she moved quickly upstairs.

When she returned, she brought hydrogen peroxide, cotton balls, and antiseptic cream to clean and dress his cuts. She kneeled beside him, and carefully doused some cotton with the peroxide solution. "John?" His eyes opened and he looked at her—perhaps without really seeing her, she thought. "I'm afraid this is going to sting," she told him. He silently nodded, and closed his eyes again.

Astrid began by gently cleaning a cut on John's cheek; then moved on to one over his brow. It was clear that he was not yet ready to talk. Astrid worked in silence. For his part, John alternated between closing his eyes, and opening them, and watching her blankly.

Astrid wondered how things had gone wrong. She thought Roger's return would herald an end to their troubles. But perhaps, like Stephen and the others, she was caught up in the myth of Roger, rather than the man himself. Powerful or not, he was just one man. Astrid had seen the hope and excitement amongst the Tomorrow People over Roger's return. At the same time, she'd noticed that John held back, but she hadn't given it much thought until now.

By now she was finishing cleaning all of the visible cuts, and dressing each one with an ointment designed to keep infection from setting in. There was little to be done about the bruises. They would heal in due time. It was a poor substitute for going to a clinic, but she knew from experience that this would suffice.

Astrid sat on the ottoman facing him and took his hand once more. "Do you want to tell me what happened?" she asked softly.

He'd given himself completely to her ministrations and been so quiet, she thought perhaps he'd fallen asleep. So it came as a surprise when he responded, "They used me." The voice was John, but not John. He opened his eyes, but did not look directly at her. Instead his gaze was unfocused and distant. Unshed tears gathered. "They used me, Astrid. I was nothing more than a pawn in their power play against the Founder."

Astrid was almost afraid to speak, lest he withdraw again. Still she asked, "Who, John?"

"Jed and Roger. They let me live half my life believing … they let me carry this guilt around. Guilt that I thought defined me, guilt that ate at me everyday. And now … I …" His voice caught.

She had no idea what he was talking about, but she didn't want him to feel that she was interrogating him. So she settled on, "I'm glad you came to me. How can I help? Do you need me to contact Cara or Stephen? Do you feel strong enough to teleport now?"

John turned his face away from her. "I can't," he let out in a harsh whisper. "The Founder took my powers." His hands clinched reflexively into fists. Then the tears came at last. "I fought him. I resisted as long as I could, but in the end … I … he …"

Astrid could hardly bear it. She went to him, and cradled him in her arms as best she could. She let him take the time he needed. When the squall had passed, she said, "John, we should get in touch with Cara. She'll be worried about you. They'll _all_ be worried about you."

"Don't you understand?" he asked harshly. "I'm no good to her now. I'm no use to any of them anymore. I don't know how to live like this."

Astrid realized with a start how little she knew or understood their world. _How_, she wondered, _how did the founder take John's powers? Was it permanent? Or could they be returned to him?_ That it was painful was apparent from the state of him. He was right that there was much she didn't understand, but there was also plenty that she did.

She pulled back so that she could look him in the eyes. "You're the same person you were before, John."

"I don't know who I am if I'm not one of them, Astrid. Protecting them has been my whole life. Now I can't help. I can't fight. If anything, I'm a liability to them."

"John, you're the same person you were before," she repeated emphatically.

"You have no idea, Astrid—no idea what it's like to have a piece of yourself ripped away." His heartbreak was palpable to her.

She said nothing for a moment, unsure what to say. What possible words of reassurance could she offer? He was right—she had no idea what he was going through. But what she did know was that when she needed it, he was there to lift her up. Now she wanted to do the same for him. "Do you think you're the first person to lose an ability that they relied on their entire life? Do you know how many sighted people lose their vision to disease or accidents? Or how many soldiers go off to war and come back without a limb … or two? It's hard, but they go on. They don't just endure—they reclaim their lives. I know it's hard right now, but you will too."

John squeezed her hand and nodded slightly.

"And I'll be here to help. I promise," she told him.

"Hey, that's my line," he said sounding much like his former self.

"It is, isn't it?"


	2. Chapter 2

AN: I hadn't planned a second chapter to this story, but I was interested in exploring the same situation from John's perspective. So, here it is—once again using the events of "A Sort of Homecoming" as a jumping off point.

* * *

Drained. The word had nested in his brain. It was the perfect word to describe him—drained—both figuratively and literally. His powers, the abilities that made him who he was, were taken from him, drained away.

John knew that his struggle to hold onto his powers left him battered and bruised, and the faces of those he passed as he walked down sidewalks, through parks, and up crowded streets told him that his face bore the signs of that struggle. At first, he let his feet take him … he wasn't sure where.

He was not ready yet to face the life he was forced to leave behind. He was not ready yet to be among others who still possessed all that had been drained from him. So he walked. He walked seemingly aimlessly, then with purpose that revealed itself to him. He knew there was one person he could turn to; one person he wanted to see right now.

It was a long walk, and when at last he arrived at her door, he felt drained of more than his powers, he felt physically spent. Exhaustion had crept in. Fatigue had taken hold of him, even as reality set itself in his consciousness. His powers were gone. He was human.

And now, it was a human he turned to for help. He braced himself against the doorjamb, and stood for a long time trying to decide whether it was a mistake. Was it fair to her to turn up like this … looking like this … being like this? He tried to imagine her reaction, and found he was too tired, too drained to do so. And now that his feet had brought him this far, brought him to her door, it was already decided. He rang the bell.

Her face said it all. It was one of the things he liked about her. She wore her feelings on her face. She made no effort to hide her true self from others. "John!" Astrid's face suffused with worry. Her arms went out to him at once. He allowed himself to feel supported, as her arm encircled his waist, and she helped him inside. Then she helped him lower himself into a chair, in a book-lined room that seemed as safe and warm as any his imagination could create. She took him in hand, and helped him out of his jacket.

He watched her as she surveyed the damage. He could see her shock at the bruises and abrasions on his wrists—a testament to the ill treatment he'd endured. "We need to get these cuts cleaned up," she told him. As she turned to leave, he reached out and caught her wrist. Though he couldn't say why, the thought of being alone again struck him with force, and left him feeling strangely bereft. "I'll be right back," she told him. The sound of her voice reassured him. He felt her hand over his, "I won't be a minute—I promise."

John closed his eyes, and let the fatigue wash over him. And then she was back. It could have been a minute, or an hour. He wasn't sure, and it didn't matter. "John?" There was her voice again in his ears. He looked at her—looked at her face—taking in every feature—the color of her eyes, the way she knit her brows, the way she cloaked her nervousness in a shy smile. "I'm afraid this is going to sting."

What could he say? That the sting of antiseptic would be the gentlest thing he'd experienced that day. That the sting would remind him that he was safe and cared for. That he welcomed it. That it would not hurt; it would validate. He bit back the bitterness and grief, and said nothing. He simply nodded, closed his eyes, and looked forward to surrendering to the feel of her hands, and her ministrations.

She worked in silence, cleaning each cut one by one. He would have welcomed the sound of her voice; he would have welcomed the distraction. Instead, his thoughts filled the void of silence. Instead, he let his mind drift to the two men … the two brothers who played, and used him for so many years. One, he had spent years despising; the other, he had spent years canonizing. Neither was right; neither was wrong. They used him. Together they had stolen his innocence, his virtue, and his youth. Together, they had made him a liar. Together, they had let him believe the worst of himself. One had watched him spend everyday seeking to atone for what he'd done … or, as it turned out, for what he believed he'd done. He'd long since come to terms with the role Jedikiah played in reshaping his life, but learning of Roger's role was a fresh betrayal. It set in motion the events that led to this moment … to his being stripped of his powers, to his being made human.

When she was done dressing his wounds, he felt her settle in front of him. "Do you want to tell me what happened?" she asked. Did he? Who else could he tell? And if he didn't, why had he come to her at all?

"They used me." His voice sounded strange, even to his own ears. And then he told her. He told her as much as he could … as much as he dared, not wanting to alienate her or scare her away. Jedikiah … Roger … they were the same. What they had taken from him, he would never get back. And together … and he now understood that they had done this together … together, they instilled the kind of guilt that leached the joy from his life for years.

To her credit, she listened without judging him. She probed, but gently … softly. It was only when she asked whether he was strong enough to teleport again, that he felt the impotent rage and frustration flood back. He couldn't bear to face her. He turned away. A wave of emotion took him under. His mind flooded with the memory of the Founder's face, and the sound of his voice.

"I can't. The Founder took my powers," he told her miserably. And then the words came, and more than that, the flood of emotions came—emotions that he could ill afford to show in front of the Founder—or indeed anyone else—they flowed readily now. Through it all, she held him as best she could until the storm had passed.

She looked him in the eyes. "You're the same person you were before, John."

But he was not—far from it. He was someone else—a human version of himself. He had spent his entire adult life trying to find and protect others like himself. But now, he was no longer one of them. More than that, he was no longer sure who he was. Who was he without the powers that defined him since he broke out—first at Ultra, and then among the Tomorrow People that he gathered together for their mutual protection? "You have no idea, Astrid," he allowed the bitterness to speak for him.

But she was having none of it. Instead of pity, she reminded him that he was not alone in suffering such a fate. She reminded him that it was all too common among humans. People lost abilities but they learned how to go on. He would too. He wondered how he'd lost touch with that truth, how he let the grief and self-pity squeeze out the recognition of what seemed so plain to her.

"And I'll be here to help. I promise," she concluded.

It reminded him of how he'd once helped her. Now it was her turn to anchor him when things looked bleak and threatening. "Hey, that's my line," his humor returning like a slender ray of light in the darkness.

"It is, isn't it?"

He looked at her face. It offered neither pity nor false hope. Yet her expression was at once sad, and hopeful. He took her hand and squeezed tightly in his. It felt so affirming that he knew it was time to take the next step.


End file.
